


Fragility

by Newtavore



Series: Fragility [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Also I Can't Actually Write Porn, First Time, Fluff, Gentle Sex, Love, M/M, PWP, Porn, Protectiveness, Seriously Though There's No Plot, Vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:04:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You never thought you'd use the word frail to describe a troll, especially one that was still alive and hadn't been culled for its own weakness, but when you looked at Kankri, that's all you could think."</p><p>Set at some indeterminate time where both Karkat and Kankri are alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragility

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, I wrote this at 6am after not sleeping for three days straight and reading through six separate Homestuck Kinkmemes so, keep that in mind when you read this. Also, I don't know how to write porn, I've never written porn, porn is not something that I have any experience with, so…

You never thought you'd use the word frail to describe a troll, especially one that was still alive and hadn't been culled for its own weakness, but when you looked at Kankri, that's all you could think.  
  
The Beforus trolls were all soft, in their own ways, but Kankri, your dancestor… he was thin, fragile,  _frail_.   
  
You wouldn't have even known, if you hadn't wrapped your arms around him in an ill thought out moment of weakness. He'd stiffened in your arms, and you'd felt how much of him was actually sweater. You'd expected him to be soft, heavy, with the bit of give in the waist most of the Beforans had, but your arms had closed in more and more until you hit ribs. Even through the thick material of his clothing, you could feel his jutting ribcage and the birdlike flutter of his heart, the way his chest expanded and contracted for air.   
  
His wrists poked out of his oversized sleeves, bones prominent. His face was rounded, but the high points of his cheekbones were still discernible, and his legs looked ludicrously thin in his skinny pants, like two twigs. It was so strange, because he seemed larger than life when he spoke, lectured, ranted continually without even pausing for breath, trapping you and everyone around him in a web of words no one seemed to be interested in.   
  
You start paying more attention to him.   
  
You start looking at him and  _noticing_  things. Like the way he was tall, but he curled in at the shoulders, crossed his arms protectively over his chest, made himself seem smaller. The way he picked at his food, never eating a full plate at one meal. The way he avoided physical contact of any kind, not just sexual. The way his fingers, long and thin as they were, would pick at things, knot themselves together in a nervous tangle, fidget non-stop.   
  
You started touching him more.   
  
At first, it was for his reactions. Pats on the back, grazes of the arm, light touches on his hands. He jumped whenever you did it, flailing comically, but you kept on till he relaxed around you. Then you moved on to bigger things- slinging an arm around his shoulders, hugging him when you saw him, pulling him close to you when you sat by him.   
  
Every time you did, you felt exactly how thin he was, how breakable. Suddenly, you were doing it because you needed to feel him, needed to make sure he was still something you could touch, not some ethereal, diaphanous apparition. The fact that it made him choke on his words was only a side bonus.  
  
His skinny frame made your stomach roil, but you didn't know how to fix it. Didn't know how bad it was until you'd already entered a quadrant with him, fell redder than your blood for him, till he cast aside his vow for you and you fell together.   
  
One minute, he was whispering in your ear that he had rescinded his promise, had freed himself from his self imposed celibacy, and the next, he was under you, shirtless.   
  
He quailed under your gaze, curling in on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest, but you pried him open, laid him bare in front of you, shucked off the rest of his clothes, and held him steady.   
  
 _Frail_.   
  
God, he's so  _frail_. His wrists feel brittle in your hands, bones pressing against your flesh, and his every rib is eerily visible. His arms and legs are stick thin, his collarbones prominent, and you realize, with some sort of hysterical humor, that you could probably teach an anatomy lesson with his body.   
  
He sinks back into the bed, face flushed, teeth worrying his lower lip. You kiss him, as gently as you can manage, suddenly aware of your own strength.   
  
You could break him. Snap him in half, shatter him into pieces if you weren't careful. You and your Alternia-bred hide, all muscle and scars with not an ounce of fat, could literally rip him apart. You could crush his wrists in your hands, break his bones, cause irreparable harm.   
  
You kiss him again, and he melts in your grasp, body pliant, uncharacteristically silent save for the soft noises he makes when you touch him.   
  
You hold his wrists in one hand, the other gently, carefully tracing his bones through his paper thin skin. He was warmer than you, hotter to the touch, skin flushed red in places where it was stretched to translucence.   
  
He squirms under your caress, gasping, eyes half lidded. He tries to pull his arms away, but you barely feel the tug. You lavish him with attention, kissing his lips, his knife-sharp jaw, his delicate neck. You lick at his collarbones, biting lightly, barely a graze of teeth and you nick the skin, and he cries out, bucking against you.   
  
He's  _beautiful_.   
  
As frail as he is, as breakable, as fragile, he's still so beautiful. You press a kiss to the center of his chest, feel his wildly beating heart under your lips.   
  
He begs, panting and shuddering under you, and you sit back up to kiss him again. He throws himself into it with all his unexperienced enthusiasm, and you guide him through, slowing down the frantic pace. He moans into your mouth, goes limp in your grasp, and you reach a hand down and press it between his legs.   
  
His bulge twists around your wrist instantly, just as long and thin as the rest of him, and you let it curl around your hand and through your fingers. He's gasping for breath, head thrown back, hips bucking unconsciously, and he's frail and beautiful and  _all yours_.   
  
You lave his throat with your tongue. Though you want to mark him, let the world know that he belongs to you, you daren't use your teeth; they're sharp and hard and you'd slice the skin of his neck without even noticing.   
  
He sighs, eyes fluttering shut, and says your name, low and quiet.   
  
You pull your hand away from his bulge, move your fingers down to his nook, and smile when, at the lightest touch, he jolts like he's been electrocuted, almost jackknifing in your hold. You press a kiss to his neck and croon, running your fingers over his wet folds as he sobs and writhes in your grasp, eyes wide open in shock.   
  
He's never felt anything like this before, never felt another's touch, not even his own, and the thought sends a rush of possessive lust through you like a bolt of lightning.   
  
He pants your name, begs in choppy, unfinished sentences because he doesn't even know what he wants, and you- slowly, carefully- slip a finger into him. He whimpers and bucks his hips, eyes glazed, and whispers pleas for more, for you, for anything.   
  
You hold him still so easily, it reminds you that, despite his eagerness, you need to be careful with him, gentle. You take the time to stretch him out before adding another finger, kissing him when he twitches at the feeling. It only takes a minute or two before he's begging again, voice wrecked, and you press forward, searching.   
  
When you finally find the spot inside of him, he wails, high and breathy, and thrusts down on your fingers, burying them past the second knuckle into his wet nook.   
  
You add a third finger while he's distracted, and he hardly notices the stretch. You're still careful, still slow, despite his pleads for you to go faster, harder. He's too fragile for you to let yourself comply, because, as much as you want to wreck him, that last thing you want to do is break him.   
  
Finally, finally, though, he's ready. You disentangle your own eagerly knotting bulge and guide the tip to his opening, easing it in as slowly as you can manage. He's stretched enough to barely feel the burn of penetration, and he screams, actually  _screams_  in pleasure, back arching. You let go of his wrists to pull him to your chest, allowing his hands to scrabble at your shoulders for purchase.   
  
You slide into him at an torturously slow pace, inch by inch, until you're fully seated inside of him. He's almost too tight to handle, and you hold yourself agonizingly still, giving him time to adjust.   
  
He stares straight into your eyes and  _orders_  you to move.   
  
You comply with a smile, grinding against him. Your bulge twists inside of him, lashing his inner walls, and he shudders and claws at your shoulders, allowing moans and cries to fall unguarded from his lips. You pull out, then thrust back in, and he tosses his head back and his voice cracks halfway through his howling. You croon to him, pressing kisses along his throat and jaw as you thrust.   
  
He's so fucking beautiful.   
  
He's flushed, cheeks the bright red of your shared blood, eyes glazed, mouth open, lost in the throes of carnal pleasure, and you are struck all over again by your pity for him, your love for him. He's frail and beautiful and  _yours_.   
  
You weren't expecting this to last long, and you were right. In less than ten minutes, he shivers in your arms and goes rigid, hands digging into your back. You wrap a hand around his bulge and give it a few short strokes, and he's done, thrashing in your arms as he falls headfirst into his first orgasm. Broken cries fall from his lips, and red spills from his nook, staining your laps and the bed underneath you. The look on his face, the sounds he makes, sends you right after him, and when you empty yourself inside of him he shudders in your hold and clutches you even tighter, giving a few cracked, raspy chirrs.   
  
You hold him close as he shivers through the aftershocks, pressing gentle kisses to his lips and telling him how good he did, how beautiful he was, how much you love him. He responds to your kisses dazedly, quivering with oversensitivity and exhaustion. He chirps when your bulge retracts, warbles quietly when you clean him up and move him to a spot on the bed not ruined by your genetic material.   
  
He asks you to stay. You say _of-fucking-course_ , _as if I were thinking about doing anything different_. You curl around him, and he burrows into your warmth.   
  
He whispers, _I love you. I'm red for you_.  
  
You press your foreheads together and whisper it right back.   
  
Kankri is thin, delicate, frail, and he is yours to hold, yours to love, yours to protect. And you will do so till your dying breath. 


End file.
